


Grate

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby's first <a href="http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=260546#cmt260546"> kink meme fill!</a>  And...shockingly, a pairing that actually already has a tag! *feels faint*</p><p>Slit's an asshole, and he's ugly, so OF COURSE I wrote him some porn. *jazzhands of predictable*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grate

Driving, he thought. I was driving. Actually, really driving. He could feel the steering wheel vibrating under his hands, real and alive, not a dream, not a fantasy, but really driving, foot on the gas, the other hovering over the clutch. And the effervescent rush of adrenaline, steering the vehicle through the closely packed pursuit, and he felt faster than life itself, as though his veins ran fuel and--

\--and he was in the infirmary. His eyes focused, slowly. Everything hurt. Before Slit's brain could even start a catalog of all parts of him in all the various parts of pain, it was just an overwhelming ‘everything’, just everything hurt.

He'd been injured before--no one survived their first run as a hoodscoop, much less a lancer, without getting hurt, one way or the other--the burn of guzzoline in the throat at the very, very least.

This wasn't Valhalla. This wasn't a chromed out vision like he'd thought it would be, like it was supposed to be, waking up to a chase, excitement burning within him. This was the infirmary, and he'd already been here, too many times and that meant he was--

"Not dead." His voice was hoarse, the two syllables like sandpaper against his throat, jagged edged with disappointment.

"You might sound more grateful," a voice said, tartly, off to his right.

Slit turned his head, knowing his face caught the twinges from the wrenched tendons in his neck, his head throbbing with the disappointing familiarity of whiplash. "You're--" She was a she, first off, a female, a woman here in the War Boys' central heart. More than a female, she was one of the Wives, the ethereal one with hair like bleached out bone or feathers, the one whose long limbs moved like water. The Dag, he thought, dimly. They were just names, to him, visions seen from a distance, separated by height and class, unbridgeable.

"Also not dead," she said, and her mouth, a sleek bow of rosey color, curved up. "And this isn't Valhalla, if you're thinking that. And no," she said, leaning over him, close enough that the tendrils of her hair brushed his cheek, "I will not fuck you." She spat the verb, like a snake's venom, as if enjoying the shock of it.

His lips curled into snarl. “Why would I even want to?”

Her mouth split into a mocking grin. “You probably don’t even know what to do with a girl.”

“I know!” He didn’t. He had no idea. The only woman he’d ever seen up close was Imperator Furiosa and, yeah, he didn’t even let his fantasies go anywhere near her. “I just don’t like used goods is all.”

Her mouth gaped, face paling, and he felt the strike of her hand like a whipcrack over his cheek, hard enough to send red stars blazing across his vision, and when they cleared, she was gone. “Hnngh,” Slit muttered, dropping back on his shoulders, even as he felt a strange hot energy spin through him. “Like I even care.”

***

Slit healed fast. Always had, and would, until the bloodsickness took him, too. Healed fast enough that his skin scarred, hard and heavy. The Organic Mechanic had muttered that it was a good thing, that the scars were thick and tough. “Natural armor,” he’d grunted, and Slit had took that as a sign: he was favored by fate, toughened up by life.

And there was no point, he knew, taking up space in the infirmary that might be needed by someone else. It was less compassion than the fact that Slit hated being surrounded by disease, by sick people. Made him feel...mortal, and that was the last thing he wanted to feel like.

Ever.

He padded, barefoot, to the Citadel’s hot spring, determined to wash the stink of it off him--the reek of failure, of sweating sleep, the grit from the road that had ground its way under his skin. He shucked off his trousers at the threshold, and they landed, stiff with dirt and heavy, as he stepped in, feeling the hot water rise around his legs. Tension drained from him as he settled against the side, lolling his head back, melting into the steamy air.

Things had changed--too much for him to take in all at once, and he just wanted a few minutes, just a few, to close his eyes and pretend things were normal. Or at least, like they used to be. At least you knew how things worked, what to expect. Now, everything seemed...weird, unsettled.

He didn’t like being unsettled, either, but at least the hot spring was the same as it was, the water just warm enough to sting when you stepped in, just enough sulfur and lime smell to make you feel clean, with all the sweat and grime stripping away and the stone underneath him was warm and hard and stable, unchanging.

And suddenly he was aware he wasn’t alone, the long-honed senses of a warrior pricking up, always on edge for targets.

And it was her, again, the one from the infirmary, the Dag, with the pale hair and thin limbs. And she looked...just about as happy to see him there, standing in the doorway, hand on the hip of her garment, already half stripped off her.

Her mouth flattened, and then she tipped her chin up, defiantly, stripping the skirt off, and peeling off her shirt. Like she was going to--

"I was here first," Slit said, sharply.

"So?" She flung her top aside, and sat down on the opposite edge of the pool's lip, knees drawn up to her chest.

"Means I'm here." He didn't know if he liked the way she looked at him, pale eyes skimming over his face and whatever she was seeing it wasn't what another War Boy would see and think--a battle tested lancer, his scars a testament of what he’d been through.

"And now I'm here, too," she said, primly, and dipped her long feet into the water, and he caught a flash of between her thighs, something pale and pink and something that made his belly squirm. And the sight of the rest of her, the high, round breasts, the dip and swell of her waist and hips, didn't do anything to soothe that squirming, and he was glad for the stirring water, distorting his own body under it, so that the hardness he couldn't stop from happening was at least hidden.

Till he had to leave. Which meant he certainly couldn't leave right now.

She was staring at him: he could feel her eyes on him, the line of his collarbone, the rise of his throat, the jagged lightning of his facial scars, and he kept his eyes shut, resentful, under it, refusing to give her any satisfaction. All he wanted to do was feel like things were the same and here she was, proving that impossible!

"Angharad used to cut her face, too," she said, conversationally, forcing him to open his eyes.

"The Splendid," he said. Just to prove that he knew who she was, because he wasn't dumb and she had no right to come in here trying to make him feel like he didn't know anything.

"She didn't like being so splendid." The woman--girl--whatever, shrugged, thin shoulders lifting in the water. "She hoped the scars would make her ugly." She lifted a hand from the water, spending a long moment just watching the water teardrop and fall from her slender fingers, before meeting his eye, catching him watching her. "I think you're ugly."

"I don't care what you think," Slit snarled, the scars on his face almost burning, tight on his skin.

"No?" She gave an impish grin, and then moved, a fluid roll diving under the water and he caught a flash of the curve of her ass, white and smooth, cresting the water, and then she was near him, under it, swimming up between his spread legs, breaking the water inches from his face.

"You've got a nicer one than Joe's," she said, and in case he couldn't figure what she meant, he felt her hand, warm and supple, squeeze his cock under the water. He felt it throb, under her touch, getting harder, and she felt it too, by the way her eyes glinted at him. She rose up onto her knees, between his legs, and her breasts just broke the surface of the water, and there was a challenge in her eyes, and her wicked grin, and Slit had never backed down from a challenge, so he leaned forward, circling the aureole with his tongue, feeling it grow taut and smooth, and he took her nipple in his mouth, giving a hard, rolling suck. She gave a wanting sigh, above him, and he felt her fingers dance along his neck, her spine rolling in a sinuous line under his own hands, and he could feel her knees against his inner thighs and his cock almost beginning to ache with want--wanting what? He didn't know--but then she pushed him away, roughly, hands on his shoulders.

"Oh, that's right," she said, lightly, too lightly for the push of her hands, sweet enough like antifreeze, "Used goods."

He groaned, at her pushing him away, at her taunt, at his own stupid, stupid words, as she tilted away, over him, to cup her breasts with her own hands, pinching and tugging on the tiny peaks of her nipples and his entire body seemed to throb at the sight, forcing a growl that was probably more of a whine than he wanted to admit from his throat. Fine. He didn’t care. He didn’t.

She gave a light laugh, a trill of sound, idly scooping up water to let it run, in a silver-sheeny sheet, over her breasts.

"Get away from me," he snarled, trying to get his legs under him, knowing his cock was going to betray him--already had--and not caring. "Or I'll--"

She stopped, as though he'd said exactly what she wanted to hear. "Or you'll...?" He’d cut the words off, bitten them down in anger, but she let them hang in the air, like crystal drops, waiting.

There was silence, except for the drip of water from her slicked back hair, for the roughness of his breath.

"Or I'll show you," he said, weakly, knowing it was deflated of any bravado. It sounded like a petulant child. _He_ sounded like a petulant child. And he hated it.

She laughed again, coming in close, leaning one hand on the stone rim behind him and he felt her tongue, a hot dart flicking over his scarred ear. "You don't have the schlenger," she whispered, like it was a secret.

He roared, rising up, hands clamping around her even as she tried to kick away, because no one said that about him, no one.

The Dag laughed, twisting away out of his arms. Her foot kicked him in the face splashspraying his face with water, and his mouth filled with coppersalt and blood, but he snatched at her ankle, hauling her back against him. He pulled her mouth to his, in a hard kiss, and felt the rev of something like excitement as she tasted the blood, her tongue darting in between his lips, her hands clutching at his shoulders in little claws. His back hit the rim of the pool, but he pushed up, lifting them both, feeling the stone scrape his spine as he stood, clearing her of the water, and turning to toss her on the ledge.

Her wet hair spilled in wet tendrils over her face, her mouth, sticking to her shoulders and doing nothing at all to cover her breasts, and he could see her whole body again, the foreign lines and curves, the slender limbs, long legs leading his eyes up to--

\--another slap, cracking across his face. "Idiot," she hissed. "War Boy fool!"

Slit grabbed her wrist, slender enough that his whole hand almost buried it, and twisted it around, a triumphant laugh bubbling in his throat as she flipped, from the leverage, face down. Harder to taunt like that, he thought, and it gave him the chance to look at her without her judging pale eyes, to really look at the way she moved, the way she was put together and his blood was pounding in his veins. He threw himself on top of her, feeling the smallness, almost delicate, of her shoulders under his broad ones, the fine texture of her skin under his scarred chest. And his hips ground against her, like the curve of her ass fitted them perfectly. Made for him.

"Coward," she hissed, the word coming out squished from his body on her chest, her legs twisting against his and then he felt one of her small hands between her legs, finding his cock, squeezing it, guiding it toward this spot of greater heat and wetness and he pushed in, blindly, following impulse and need, and felt the flesh part around his cock, hot and slick and wanting. "Show me," she gasped, and she raked the hand over his thigh, raising three long welts of pain and lust, "come on!"

Slit was outvoted by her, by his body, and besides, he had said he'd show her...but he was pretty sure he hadn't meant this, but it was way too late for that, because his hand was hooking around that curve in her waist, hauling her up onto her knees, sinking himself deeper into her, against her.

She pushed back against the thrusts, demanding more speed, cursing a breathless litany that no woman should know, he thought, but the insults seemed to fan his lust, like kerosene flung on fire, and his body rose with her, driving harder and harder against her, feeling his hard muscle hit the soft curve of her ass, his hands gripping into her flanks. And it felt good--different, but good, like the way an automatic was different from a manual transmission, the same rise of desire and need, the same snarling rush of sensation, but sleeker, slicker, with rounded curves instead of angles.

And hair, her long hair, almost begging for his hand to gather it up, tangle it in one hand. He pulled back with it, and her spine arched under him, changing the line and angle of his thrusts. Slit shuddered, heaving her further back, sinking his teeth into the wedge of muscle between her neck and shoulder, her slim spine against his belly, and he fell back on his shins, thrusting up into her. He took advantage of the angle, rising up into her, feeling her slender thighs wrapping over his. Her wet hair spangled against his face, his shoulder, and Slit used his freed hands to cup around her breasts, feeling them bounce and drop in tempo with his thrusts.

She’d stopped cursing, but hadn’t gone quiet, giving little whimpers, almost like little barks that seemed to rise in pitch.

And then she screamed--he could feel it force from her ribs--and she drove herself down against him, twisting her hips, her hands raking his arms with her nails. Slit shuddered, groaning, feeling her shift against him, like...inside her, a weird kind of fluttering squeezing thing that took him off guard, breaking his control, and he gave that kind of noise like a punch in the belly as he came, hard, like hard enough to see his vision go white, and then his frame went soft, limp, and he eased himself over onto his side, his cock still inside her, shuddering at every shift of himself inside her. Slit felt loose and drowsy and...good. Yeah, real good, like the best he’d felt since waking in the infirmary, as though every tension in his joints had been loosened.

He didn’t have the strength, or the will, to protest when she moved, slithering herself off his cock, with a rush of heat and liquid that sent one last twitching tingle through him. She turned, tossing her wet pale hair off her face, and darted down, planting a fast, teasing kiss on his mouth, tongue flicking out like a serpent's at the little leak of blood, and then another on his scarred cheek, two fast little flares of contact, and then she ducked lower, and a third kiss, a little flare of heat and pleasure, on the head of his softening cock.

“You’ll do,” she said, rising up, all long lines and beautiful curves, like a sweet sweep of road, leading up to that wicked smile. “With a little practice.”

 


End file.
